


All Leaves Fall in Autumn

by misura



Category: Fate/Zero
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Feelings, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28212705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: "Healing someone you wish to see suffer hardly seems logical," Saber said. She wished he would leave her be."Doesn't it?" Archer smiled again, slow and lazy, like a cat contemplating a mouse already caught. "How marvelously innocent you are, to think all suffering must be physical."
Relationships: Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Lancer/Artoria Pendragon | Saber, Gilgamesh | Archer/Artoria Pendragon | Saber
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	All Leaves Fall in Autumn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sheeana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheeana/gifts).



The ointment smelled sweet as spring and summer, making her think of flowers and sunshine and -

"Please cease thinking such dreadfully boring thoughts at once," someone said.

Saber opened her eyes. She had been expecting Lancer, realized that she had, in the short time they had known one another, come to think of Lancer as almost a friend, but for the fact that he was her enemy. Someone who acted with honor and valor, who would stand with her against those lacking such things.

She had fallen and, sensing someone nearby and fast approaching, assumed it to be Lancer. She had been ready to protest that she did not need his help, ready to accept a helping hand even so, a shoulder to lean on. A fleeting smile and the sensation of human warmth.

She had not, she realized, been prepared for Archer, smirking down at her as he applied a strange medicine to her left hand.

"You look surprised," said Archer. His hands were warm, but his smile was cold, nothing like Lancer's. "Did I not tell you that you might prove worthy of my attention? And now, behold, here I am."

Saber beheld and decided she did not much care for what she saw.

Archer was beautiful, she supposed: glorious and golden, where Lancer was dark and silver-quick. (There was no need to continue comparing the two: they were both her enemies, whom she would face and then defeat in order to win the Grail.)

Her left arm tingled, as if she had fallen asleep on it. As if she had not lost its use in combat for days.

Archer's smile widened, though it still lacked all warmth. "There. Truly, my generosity astounds even me. I dare say the cure for such a wound may be found nowhere but in my treasure house."

Saber stretched her left hand, half-disbelieving such a thing could be possible. She had been foolish, underestimating Lancer, and he had wounded her for it, as she deserved.

To have Archer take that away as if it was nothing, as if the matter involved him in any way - it was offensive. Intolerable. And yet, in its way, it was a kindness. It _was_ generous, to come to an injured enemy's aid, as Lancer might have done, or she herself.

"I thank you," she said, trying to make the words sound sincere, convincing. Archer could hardly be blamed for not being Lancer. The mistaken assumption had been hers alone. "It feels quite good to have the use of my left hand again." She ventured a smile.

Archer's expression suggested he did not much appreciate her effort. She wondered again why he had come. "It would be a pity if you were to be defeated too soon," he said.

"You mean to face me in combat." It wasn't even a question.

"Perhaps," Archer said, which was hardly the answer she'd been expecting. She suspected he enjoyed keeping her off-balance, not charging at her straight on (as Lancer would) but tricking her into misreading his intentions. "Mostly, I think it will be interesting to see how much you will suffer."

"Healing someone you wish to see suffer hardly seems logical," Saber said. She wished he would leave her be. It felt graceless: regardless of his words, he _had_ given her a most valuable gift.

"Doesn't it?" Archer smiled again, slow and lazy, like a cat contemplating a mouse already caught. "How marvelously innocent you are, to think all suffering must be physical."

Saber worked herself to an upright position. Archer did not offer her any aid, merely watching.

Lancer would be pleased, she thought, to learn she would be able to face him again at her full strength. With luck, this time at last, they might finish the battle so often interrupted, or postponed; she would take his life, or he hers, and that would be the end of it at last.

She would never look to find him by her side again. She would never again anticipate meeting him in combat, seeing his grin and the masterful twirling of his spears. She would no more hear his voice, telling her he felt as she did: pleased to find such an opponent, someone true and valorous and worth remembering for the rest of her life.

Archer laughed. It was a strange sound, coming from him: she could tell his amusement was genuine, heartfelt, honest. (He had laughed like that at Rider's ridiculous meeting, suggesting she was unworthy of calling herself a king, of wishing to avert her beloved Britain's fate, and she had told herself it did not matter, that Lancer, at last, understood such things.)

"There can be no doubt. Saber, you are indeed worthy of my attention. You will die in abject misery, abandoned and alone, your hopes and dreams crushed, your ambitions come to nothing, your pride a broken thing, useless and empty."

She wanted to say, 'you are wrong, Lancer would no more abandon me when I had need than I him'. She wanted to say, 'to take pleasure in the misery of others is unworthy of a king, or any man'. She wanted to say, 'I would willingly be your honorable enemy, if only you displayed even a shred of honor'.

He seemed to read that last thought off of her face. Being Archer, he laughed again.

Saber scowled. She tried to tell herself that perhaps he only acted this way to not make her feel as if she were in his debt - but the thought would not hold: this was simply how Archer acted and talked.

"I will tell you this," he said. "If, once you have killed Lancer, you wish to fight me, I may allow you to do so. However, know that as long as you amuse me, I will not grant you the death you long for."

Saber put her hand on the pommel of her sword. "For the sake of your earlier actions today, I will ignore those words. But, Archer, know that when we face one another in combat, I will not hesitate to take your life."

"You will try." Archer inclined his head. "I will indulge you. Eventually, I expect even you might come to see the futility of pitting your pitiful strength against mine. Then, well, perhaps I will indulge you yet further." His smile held a hint of something not quite cold this time, something almost hungry.

Saber looked away, deciding it was nothing she wished to see, to understand. Archer was beyond understanding. He had mocked and offended her; he had healed her; he had mocked and offended her some more.

Eventually, assuming they both survived the coming battles, they would face one another, and Archer's claims notwithstanding, she would either kill him or die trying.

She looked at her left hand, then back at Archer, who had gone back to looking golden and enigmatic.

"Once again, I thank you for the gift of your healing, Archer. I promise I will not waste it." She bowed, not as a subject might bow to a king, but as a king might bow to an equal.

If Archer realized, his face did not show it. He moved forward a bit, surprising her as he kissed her, not on the forehead, as one might an injured or weary friend, or on the cheek, as one might a comrade in arms, but on the mouth, as one would a spouse or lover.

Saber raised her hands, meeting nothing but air, shot through with specks of gold. She realized she was blushing, as if he had been Lancer, except that Lancer would never have kissed her without permission, would never have kissed her, period, because they were enemies, sometimes allies, but not friends, never friends.

She refused to wonder why, then, the thought of continuing the fight without him, made something in her chest compress until it hurt.


End file.
